“I’m not sure that I agree with you,” he said at last. “Gregg’s not behaving like a guilty man. I fully expected that he’d make a break for the boat-train, instead of which he’s gone quite openly to the address at which he always stays, according to his servants, when he comes to town. He may have come up merely to get legal advice.” “Lady Cynthia’s certainly got a strong feeling that this man Page is implicated,” admitted Fayre. “I think she’s right and her suggestion that the car may have been stopped if it ran to London with a broken number-plate is quite sound. We can work on that, anyhow.” “In the meanwhile, is there anything I can do?” “Yes,” answered Grey decisively. “Get in touch with Sir Edward, if you can, and see if he won’t arrange an interview with us. He’s got one of the acutest brains in England and I’d welcome his advice. Besides, he’s got a personal interest in the case.” Fayre laughed. “He hasn’t exactly encouraged my maiden efforts!” he complained. “In fact, he told me flatly to go to the police just before he left Staveley.” Grey nodded. “That’s the line he would take. Like all competent people he distrusts the capacity even of professionals; and amateurs simply don’t exist for him. I don’t think he’ll take that line now, however, especially when he realizes how far we’ve got. He’ll admit that we’ve every reason now to keep the thing in our own hands.” “I’ll call on Lady Kean this afternoon and see if I can get hold of him. He’s sure to be there unless they are week-ending out of town, and I don’t think she’s well enough yet for that.” “Any time he chooses to appoint will suit me. Meanwhile, if nothing further transpires as regards Gregg, I’ll beard him myself. He may not resent my curiosity as much as yours, and if he has been to see his solicitor he’ll no doubt have had it impressed upon him that his attitude is not only stupid but dangerous, if he’s really got nothing to hide.” They lingered over lunch and again over their coffee. When they at last parted Fayre strolled down Piccadilly and across Green Park and it was close on four o’clock when he reached Kean’s house in Westminster. Two cars were standing before the door when he reached it. Evidently he was not the only caller, a discovery which afforded him a certain satisfaction. If there were other people there Sybil would have little opportunity for discussing the Draycott murder and he might manage to slip away and transact his business with Kean. He had hardly taken his hand off the bell when the door was opened and, without waiting for his inquiry as to whether Lady Kean was at home, the butler stood aside for him to pass into the hall. “Sir William is waiting for you, sir, if you’ll step up,” he said. “Sir William?” repeated Fayre, puzzled. “Isn’t this Sir Edward Kean’s?” For a moment the man seemed taken aback; then he realized his mistake.